


Intimacy

by thefudge



Category: iZombie (TV)
Genre: F/M, Trash Ship, here i go again, sort of AU but also could be canon?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-02
Updated: 2015-04-02
Packaged: 2018-03-20 23:15:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3668796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefudge/pseuds/thefudge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“See?” he speaks softly. “Physical contact. You don’t have to be on edge. You can’t infect me.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intimacy

They’re talking about their humanity again. 

It’s one of those bothersome topics that can actually disturb his cultivated charm. It’s no consolation to remember something you can never have again. He is growing accustomed to his new biology, but little pieces of being a fully-fledged human filter through his walls and pester his peace, especially at night, when he just lies and stares at the ceiling. He imagines she does the same.

He does not believe there is a cure for what he is, inside and out. But he hasn’t told her yet. He lets her dream of something better. She hasn’t figured out he’s a complete cynic, and for some reason, he likes it that way. Sometimes, her round big eyes stare up at him with hope, even if they’re constantly clouded by suspicion and disbelief. He is a member of her kind, after all, and he  _made_ her. She looks to him for some kind of normality, almost out of instinct.

It shouldn’t please him this much. He should quash that glimmer of hope inside of her. He should be proud of his new, improved status. Go with the strokes. Feed, profit, repeat. 

Liv Moore is cute. But not that cute, and certainly not worth further consideration.

And then she says,

”I miss my fiance, the most. Well, not him  _him_ , if that makes sense. I see him almost daily thanks to my nosy friends and relatives. But there’s this great gulf of distance between us. So really, it’s his touch, his skin I really miss. Wow, even if I  _weren’t_ a zombie, that would still sound creepy, huh?”

Blaine pauses, appearing to chew thoughtfully on a soggy but unfortunately delicious piece of cerebellum. 

She is only sharing such intimate things with him because he has kept up the rueful-but-remorseful-zombie act for three days straight. Hunger will do strange things to a man. He kind of contemplates joining an acting class because these skills should be put to good use. He tells himself he’ll stop playing this charade once he finds a more stable source of food. So far, attacking and blackmailing his victims has been a hit-and-miss. Turns out, being a zombie is not the same as being all-powerful. You have to use stealth and - pardon the pun - _brains_ to pull off a really efficient attack. 

So he looks down respectfully and smiles with a sadness which is fabricated, but not hard to come by.

“Eh. You’re in the company of someone who once groped you on a boat. If anyone’s the creep here…”

Liv raises an eyebrow. “Can’t argue there.”

“Anyway, you’re too nice and clean-cut to say it outright, but what you need is raw physical contact. That’s the bitch about being a zombie, you’re still trapped with some very human necessities.”

“If you’re talking about sex,” she replies flatly, “sure, I won’t lie, it’s up there on the list of human-life-regrets. But I can get myself off easily. And  _not_  because I work in a morgue. It’s the intimacy I’m talking about.” 

Blaine chuckles and chokes on his food, but swallows it quickly. Liv Moore is one sharp, bitter cookie. She’s all naive and wide-eyed until you hear her talk. Sometimes he forgets that and enjoys rediscovering the hard interior underneath the buttercup exterior. 

"So…you just want to touch him, hold him close and all that stuff? Nothing else?”

“Nothing else.”

“Kind of lame, but okay, no judgement,” he adds when she rolls her eyes at him. “I don’t understand the problem, though. You won’t give him Z with your fingers, if that’s your concern.”

Liv sighs like it’s so beyond him, this whole human emotions thing.

“It’s not the same thing. I would always feel on edge because of what I am. And then he would realize something’s up and blame it on himself like he always does. It wouldn’t work out.”

Blaine shakes his head. “First of all, your boyfriend sounds like a real doormat, sorry to say. Second, you’d only  _be_ on edge because you’d want to do more and risk infecting him. Hence, I was right.”

Liv groans. “You’re an asshole. Only assholes want to be right all the time.”

Yeah, okay, so maybe he does more rueful than remorseful. 

Blaine wipes his mouth and gets up to wash his empty plate. He doesn’t do it to make up for his words. It’s just common courtesy. 

When he’s done, he turns around and finds her stacking the “brain casseroles” - as he’s fondly dubbed them - back in the fridge. 

She is bent down and her eyes are aflame with a hunger she’s utterly ashamed of, but there is a halo about her that has nothing to do with the fridge light. 

Later, he will say it was a zombie move, not a  _Blaine_ move. 

He reaches out to her and touches her shoulder, pressing his dry fingers against her collarbone. She freezes on the spot.

Blaine shuts the fridge with his foot and turns her around slowly. Now he’s got both his hands on her shoulders and since she’s still sort of watching him without a clue, he tentatively runs his fingers up and down her forearms. He’s not gentle, but he’s not rough either. He’s just an animal testing another animal from his pack.

“See?” he speaks softly. “Physical contact. You don’t have to be on edge. You can’t infect me.”

He owes her this much after practically killing her and giving her a new, terrible lease on life. But he doesn’t want to think about being a fatherly figure. Because at that moment, something clicks in both their famished brains. A strangled “aha!” that makes them feel foolish for not realizing it sooner.

“Yeah…” Liv trails off hoarsely. “I guess we can’t harm each other.”

Blaine licks his lips. He removes his hands quickly, but his eyes remained glued to her doe-eyed face. 

It shouldn’t really affect him, this realization that he can fuck her without consequences. 

He doesn’t have any qualms about copulating with the rest of the human species, but she doesn’t have to know that. In her eyes, he is just as tormented by this barrier as her. 

And, well, isn’t he?

It’s something he pushes to the back of his mind constantly, but sex has become a weapon, a kind of instrument of power he uses to keep going. He never actually enjoys it anymore. He has to infect other in order to live and keep doing business. But he’s always - ironically - on edge. He can’t let go. It’s perfunctory. A transaction.  

So maybe they are both kind of miserable. His only upside is that he’s turning his misery into profit.

But wouldn’t it be glorious to be with someone like him for a night? 

Oh, there are plenty of women like him now, thanks to his good work, but he can’t go back to them for sex. A weapon is used once, fatally, and then it’s not wasted again. He wouldn’t be able to forget what is at stake with them. He couldn’t put the business out of his mind. That’s all there is.

But wouldn’t it be - liberating? Not having to calculate his pleasure? Not having to remember the transaction?

He swallows just imagining taking her in his arms, feeling the same deadness inside her, a deadness which protects them both, because it’s untainted by hatred and design. There is a rottenness in her flesh that almost smells sweet and could make him forget - 

He takes a step forward, almost by instinct. She takes a step back.

He could have her right there, on the table they ate, cover her ashen body in kisses and tear her unnecessary clothes off of her. They’re no longer human anyway, so why pretend? Inside of her, he could imagine shedding his skin, be truly dead. No more Z. No more schemes. For one brief embrace. 

He made her what she is. Maybe he made her for  _himself_. Maybe - 

But he stops, thinking he’s going insane. Old Blaine would have never found anything alluring or liberating about this uptight med kid. And old Liv would have despised his conniving ways. 

So, they’re a senseless match, even in death. 

She licks her lips. “You should go. It’s late.”

He stares at her mouth for too long. He can hear her moans, can picture them so clearly that he has to clench his fists. He can feel her breath on his neck as he fucks her without ceremony. He pictures tipping her chin up and looking into those starling eyes as he makes her come. _There_. That should be enough intimacy for her. 

He smiles a frosty smile.

“Thanks for the meal. See ya next time, partner.”

He can’t explain why he said it. But it slipped out nevertheless, and, if she weren’t so stone-cold dead, he might think he saw a spatter of red on her cheeks.


End file.
